


Trick or Treat?

by sheafrotherdon



Series: Nantucket AU [40]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Stop</em> that," John says, smacking the back of Rodney's hand as Rodney goes in for his sixth or seventh snack-sized Snickers bar in half an hour.  "There'll be none left for the kids."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trick or Treat?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_oscar_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the_oscar_cat).



" _Stop_ that," John says, smacking the back of Rodney's hand as Rodney goes in for his sixth or seventh snack-sized Snickers bar in half an hour. "There'll be none left for the kids."

Rodney glares across the kitchen counter mutinously, one cheek rounded in chocolate-and-peanutty bliss. "S'plenty. And besides, I'm just saving them from the terrible trauma of early-onset tooth decay." He pouts when John picks up the enormous bowl of candy and moves it to the end table they've stationed by the front door. "But if you want to contribute to the growing risk of diabetes in young children . . ."

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"Besides." Rodney folds his arms across his chest. "There ought to be _some_ benefit to me for enduring this ridiculous shenanigan."

John strolls back to where Rodney's puffed up with indignation, all prickles and stings and smears of chocolate. "Shenanigan, huh?" He settles his hands on Rodney's hips, pulls him a little closer.

Rodney looks sullen. "I don't like kids."

"Sure you do."

Rodney narrows his eyes. "I think I know how I feel about children, thank you very much."

"I've seen you talking to Ella Bennet's two."

Rodney makes a sound of derision, unfolding his arms as John pulls him a little closer still. He finds a loose thread hanging from one of John's shirt buttons and starts fiddling with it. "I tolerate them."

"You spent a good hour throwing a Frisbee with them last Sunday afternoon," John points out, sliding one of his hands into the back pocket of Rodney's jeans.

"Well. They asked and . . . really that was because Cash liked it."

"The dog." John manages to keep a straight face as he leans in and kisses Rodney chastely.

"Yes, the _dog_ ," Rodney mumbles. "Unless you're keeping the mummified remains of some country singer around here, a country singer with a predilection for catching Frisbees in his mouth, a country singer who – "

"Mummified?" John asks, tilting his head as if he's considering the idea. "It _is_ Halloween." And he's forced to quell Rodney's put-upon huff of protest by kissing him soundly, only consenting to pulling away when they're both a little out of breath and John's fairly sure he's chased down the last hints of chocolate from Rodney's warm mouth.

The doorbell rings, and it's John who answers, pushing open the screen door and crouching down so that he can talk to Pokemon and a ladybug and two very small ghosts face to face. They're the first of a tidal wave of children who crunch up the oyster shell drive with their bags and plastic, pumpkin-shaped pails in hand, giggling and shrieking and growing bold or shy in turn when it comes to posing the age-old question of 'trick or treat?' John dispenses candy by the handful, feigns fear when the monsters and ghoulies try to scare him, and solemnly accepts when the Peters' two-year-old misunderstands and earnestly gives him a Kit-Kat from her bag, thinking she should be sharing rather than building up a stash. He can sense Rodney hovering, watching from a good ten feet back (seven, six, five) and when he's running low on candy, Rodney brings more, opens up the bags and pours them generously into the bowl. Surprisingly, he doesn't disappear after that, just stands at John's elbow, awkwardly smiling as best he knows how and waving like it's a new thing he just learned when a kid notices he's there.

They're about an hour into it when John realizes he really can't hold back the need to take a leak any longer, and there's a break in the traffic flow that means he might be able to make it upstairs and back before the next gaggle of kids treks up to the porch. "Here," he says, passing the bowl to Rodney and shutting the door.

Rodney blinks, nonplussed. "But – what? We're not done, I saw flashlights up at – " He gestures toward the Haskell place.

"Nature calls," John explains sheepishly. "Just – keep the door shut and they won't bother you. I'll be back before you know it." And he takes the stairs two at a time, regretting the half a pot of coffee he downed at four o'clock. He hurries up as best he can, but sometimes there's just no speeding up the natural flow of things, and he mumbles _c'mon, c'mon_ at his bladder, listening for the sound of kids and their families, and wondering exactly how much candy Rodney's going to haven eaten straight out of the bowl before he gets back.

But when he gets downstairs, Rodney's not impersonating a chipmunk or storing Reese's pieces in his cheeks for winter, squirrel-like. He's sitting cross-legged on the porch, screen-door held open by the bulk of his body, encouraging Brody Carmichael to count out how many pieces of candy are going into his pillowcase and grinning happily when the kid makes it to five. John holds back, watches as Rodney asks a little girl, in perfect seriousness, who she's dressed as, when it's clear as day she's some home-grown version of Tinkerbell. An in-depth conversation ensues at a pitch John can't quite hear, but he smacks a hand over his mouth to hold in a yelp of laughter when Rodney solemnly claps his hands, following her instruction, no doubt proving that of course he believes in fairies too.

They switch roles after that, John bringing the extra candy, Rodney doing the dispensing, and if Rodney blushes and mutters, "Shut up," at John on more than one occasion when John isn't saying anything at all, well, John'll count it as a victory, no matter how many Milk Duds Rodney eats or how big his eyes get when John opens up an enormous bag of candy corn.

By seven-thirty, the tide's begun to recede, and by eight, Rodney's standing at the top of the porch steps, peering up the road and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he chews on an Almond Joy.

"I think they're gone," John says, fishing around in the bowl for a Milky Way.

Rodney grins at him, eyes sugar-bright. "They were so good!" he beams. "Did you see Einstein? That little girl had his hair down to a tee." He scrabbles for some more candy corn and chews delightedly, the tuft of hair that's rooted high on his forehead sticking up straight in the evening breeze.

"I liked the football player from hell," John suggests.

"Ohhhh, yes," Rodney agrees. "That blood was really convincing."

"And the kid who was – " John gestures, making claws with his fingers. "You know."

"And had the – " Rodney twirls a hand over his head.

"Yes!"

"He was _so pink_."

John licks his lips to make sure he's not missing any chocolate. "Really pink." He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks out over the garden to the dark hulk of the Wagoneer parked on the road. "So, did you – " He hitches a shoulder. "Enjoy yourself?"

"Oh, shut up," Rodney says, setting the candy dish down on the porch rail and grabbing for John's elbow. "Shut up and just – " And he kisses him, smiling, suffused with a childish glee John reckons he rarely got to indulge when he was actually a kid, hand sliding up along John's jaw and into his hair, thereby shorting out everything that could pass for coherent thought in John's brain, kissing him warm and reckless and happy, making John smile too.

"Trick or treat?" John asks when the kiss breaks and they're nose to nose, panting gently.

"Both?" Rodney says hopefully.

"Race you," John grins, and they push and shove each other inside, tripping and grabbing as they make their way, laughing, to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.


End file.
